


Sex, Drugs, and Tutoring

by serenityofinsanity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Victor Trevor/Sherlock Holmes, Teenlock, exchangelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityofinsanity/pseuds/serenityofinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This had better be worth it. I’m wasting study time for this.”</p><p>“Hey, you’re the one who’s desperate, mate. I’m just trying to help out.” Mike knocked on the door of the lab before stepping inside. John followed in behind him.</p><p>A tall, gangly boy was adding some liquid to a petri dish, dark curls obscuring his face. He looked up when they came in, and John was struck by his strange, delicate features.</p><p>“Hey Sherlock,” Mike said, “This is my friend John Watson.”</p><p>Sherlock gave John a cursory glance. “No,” he said, and returned his gaze to the petri dish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my exchangelock gift for apiologies. It's (mostly) finished, but I still have to edit it, and I can't promise more than weekly updates, as I'm pretty busy with work and volunteering at the moment. I'll be updating the tags and rating as they apply - yes, eventually it will be explicit. 
> 
> You should be warned that contrary to what the title implies, there won't actually be a lot of sex or drugs in this fic. Mostly tutoring. And making out.
> 
> I will delay you no longer. Hope you enjoy!

John Watson was smart, relatively speaking. He was smart enough to be the top of his class in college, and he was smart enough to get a full ride into uni. But university was demanding in ways that college was not, and as a result, John struggled through his first semester. Sleepless nights and hours cut out of his much-needed part-time job did nothing to help him, and by the time finals were approaching, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would need a tutor. Turned out, Mike Stamford had the solution to all his problems.

“Who is this guy again?” John asked. Mike smirked.

“You’ll see.”

They were heading towards the chem labs. God knew who would have been hanging around there at that time in the semester.

“This had better be worth it. I’m wasting study time for this.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s desperate, mate. I’m just trying to help out.” Mike knocked on the door of the lab before stepping inside. John followed in behind him.

A tall, gangly boy was adding some liquid to a petri dish, dark curls obscuring his face. He looked up when they came in, and John was struck by his strange, delicate features.

“Hey Sherlock,” Mike said, “This is my friend John Watson.”

Sherlock gave John a cursory glance. “No,” he said, and returned his gaze to the petri dish.

“No, what?” Mike said.

“No, I will not tutor some wanna-be rugby player in chemistry, no matter how much money he can pay me, which is evidently not much in the first place.”

Mike sighed. “Can’t you give him a chance? He’s a nice bloke.”

“As you very well know, most _nice blokes_ our age find me quite disagreeable. In fact, most people in general find me disagreeable, and I’m inclined to feel the same way about them. Now please do leave, you’re very distracting and this is a delicate experiment.”

There was a moment of silence before John managed to catch up to the conversation, and it took him another second to unstick his jaw from the floor.

“Wait, how - how did you know why we came in here? And how did you know I play rugby?”

Sherlock ignored him. “Mike, why are you still here?” he said.

Mike huffed. “Alright, fine, we’ll get out of your hair.” He turned to leave, giving John’s arm a tug to indicate to him to do the same.

“How generous of you,” Sherlock muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

They left the lab. John’s head was swimming. He had a vague feeling that he should be insulted, but he wasn’t entirely sure what had merited it. 

“What the hell, Mike,” he said, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Mike shrugged. “I was hoping he would be in a good mood. I think you two would get along.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gets along with _anyone_. He said so himself.”

Mike didn’t seem fazed. “Oh, that’s just a front. He’s afraid to get attached to people, so he makes sure no one wants to get close to him. The whole thing is pretty transparent, actually.”

“Didn’t seem like a front to me,” John muttered.

“Trust me, he’s a very good actor,” Mike said. “I’ll try to work on him, see if I can get him to at least give you a chance. Meanwhile, you should probably see if you can find someone else.”

Of course, John couldn’t find anyone else. Everyone was either busy with their own finals, already tutoring, or out of his price range. But now that he had met Sherlock, he started seeing him everywhere. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock ever attended class, because he always seemed to be bent over an experiment in a lab, or out by the pond collecting samples of water, or monitoring the growth of plants in different areas of the campus. 

He found himself growing more and more curious about the strange things he would see Sherlock doing, but he never found the courage to ask about them. Once, he managed to catch Sherlock’s eye and nod at him in acknowledgement. Of course, all he got in return was a pair of raised eyebrows and a healthy serving of cool indifference. Now that he thought about it, John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock would have remembered him from their abrupt meeting in the lab, considering how intensely he had been focused on whatever delicate experiment he was conducting.

For this reason, John was terribly surprised when Sherlock marched up to him in the hall one day, clasped his hands rather forcefully behind his back, and said “John Watson.” John opened his mouth, intending to greet him somehow, but Sherlock cut him off. “Don’t bother with niceties. Mike Stamford has been nagging me to tutor you since he brought you to the lab eight days ago, and although I am significantly talented in the art of ignoring and avoiding people I don’t like, he is seriously getting in the way of my experiments and generally making my life miserable. Therefore, I agreed to get coffee with you so that he would finally get off my back.”

“Uh - “

“Afternoon.” Sherlock flashed an obviously fake grin and began to move past John.

“Hold on,” John said, floundering a bit. “Is that all?”

Sherlock turned back towards him. “Problem?”

“We just met and suddenly you’re going to start tutoring me? I don’t even know where we’re meeting, or when.”

“I didn’t say I was going to tutor you, I said we were getting coffee together. Then I’ll explain to Mike that you are completely intolerable and unteachable, and he’ll leave me alone. We meet at 8:30 tomorrow morning at 222 Baker Street.” Sherlock winked, and then he was gone, lost among the other students moving to their next classes.

Once again, John was left dumbstruck and vaguely insulted as he turned Sherlock’s words over in his mind. He was surprised to hear that Mike had been on Sherlock’s back - Mike hadn’t even mentioned the boy to him after their failed conversation in the lab. Hopefully Mike hadn’t been too harsh on John’s account. In any case, John resolved to be on his best behaviour tomorrow. No matter how strange or abrasive Sherlock seemed, he desperately needed a tutor, and Sherlock was his last hope.

John woke the next morning at precisely 8:06. He pulled on a clean jumper and jeans, washed his face, and combed his hair. He left campus at about 8:19 and arrived at 222 Baker Street, which turned out to be a shop called Speedy’s, three minutes later. He spent the next several minutes sitting in a corner of the quaint little cafe trying to fix his hair using his phone as a mirror. At 8:28, the thought crossed his mind that Sherlock could be at home right now, laughing to himself as he imagined John sitting alone in a cafe, worrying and fixing his hair, as the reality of his doom set in.

Of course, at that exact moment, Sherlock walked through the door. He spotted John immediately and made his way over to their table. John stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and shook Sherlock’s hand.

“Morning,” John said. Sherlock made no move to reply. Instead, he stepped over to the counter.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called. A middle-aged lady with short hair stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Two coffees,” Sherlock ordered.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, her tone rather motherly. “You’re not going to have two coffees all to yourself, are you? You know all that caffeine is bad for such a young man.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, I have company.” He jerked his head towards their table. She looked over, eyes wide, and John smiled his most charming smile. She returned it, eyes crinkling.

“Sherlock, dear, how wonderful! He seems like a nice young man. Two coffees, coming right up!” Before John could figure what she meant, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Well, she’s terribly cheerful today,” Sherlock said, sitting down across from John. There was a bit of an awkward silence as they looked at each other, John completely unsure of what to say. He felt like any attempt at standard small talk would be met with scorn from Sherlock. His dilemma was solved shortly, when Sherlock opened his mouth.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I disappear for days on end. That wouldn’t bother you, would it?”

John had a sinking feeling that this encounter wasn’t going to be any less confusing than their previous ones. Sherlock didn’t even wait for a response before he continued.

“Occasionally, I solve crimes.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” John said. “How can you possibly solve crimes? You’re, what, 18? 19?”

Sherlock somehow managed to look affronted and pleased at the same time. “I’m 17, and I solve crimes by observing and deducing.”

Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the kitchen. “You’re 17?” John said, raising his eyebrows.

“Here’s your coffee, boys,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerily. There was already sugar in the bottom of one of the mugs, and creamers and sugar packets resting on the saucer of the other. She set the one with sugar in front of Sherlock and poured the coffee for them. “I fixed yours the way you like it, Sherlock, but I wasn’t sure how your date takes his.”

John froze in the middle of opening a creamer. “Uh,” he said, glancing at Sherlock, who seemed completely oblivious to what she had just said. “I’m not his date.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “Enjoy your coffee, dear.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen.

John stirred two creamers into his coffee, curiosity quickly overcoming his embarrassment. “So. Exactly how does a 17 year old solve crimes? And, come to think of it, how did you expect to tutor me in first year chemistry if you haven’t even finished college? Unless you skipped ahead in school, I guess I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I answered your first question already. I observe things, and from there, I deduce facts that ultimately lead to the perpetrator. To answer your second question, school is a waste of time, and so I attend just often enough to progress, and spend the rest of my time pursuing more useful things.”

“Like solving crimes?”

“And studying chemistry. I’ve also learned quite a bit about physics, British law, local geography, and anatomy. And, as you already know, I practice the violin.”

John huffed out a laugh. “That’s brilliant.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Freak,” Sherlock said, clicking the ‘k’. His face was carefully blank.

John shrugged. “Sod them. I think it’s brilliant.”

Sherlock sipped at his coffee, and John swore his cheeks were a little pinker than before. Then he leaned back in his chair.

“So, John. You’re going to be an Army doctor.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You’re studying to become an Army doctor. I am right, am I not?”

“Yeah. How did you know? Did Mike tell you?”

“No. I didn’t know, I saw.”

“So you... deduced it? How?”

“You need tutoring in chemistry, which was obvious because Mike brought you to the lab right after you shared chemistry class with him. The topic must have come up then, and Mike thought I would agree to tutor you out of desperation for company. Now, the fact that you need tutoring means you’re not exceptionally good at it, therefore you aren’t headed for a career directly based on chemistry. Certainly not a chemist - you’re not the kind of person who’s content to stand around in a lab all day long. Most likely a doctor, then. But med school is expensive, far too expensive for your family, and you can’t get by with grades alone there. But the Army needs doctors. In fact, they’re willing to pay for all of med school if you agree to join the military. So, Army doctor it is. Obvious.”

“Obvious? Jesus, Sherlock, no wonder you can solve crimes. That was amazing.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, going pink again, and checked his watch. “You’d best be on your way. You have class in 20 minutes.”

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen again to check up on them. John pulled out his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, no, dear, don’t bother with that, it’s on the house, for Sherlock too,” Mrs. Hudson said. She busied herself clearing their table off. “Just this once, mind, I’m not a charity.”

John smiled. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to Sherlock, and the thought struck him that he had completely forgotten that Sherlock was supposed to decide whether or not to tutor him. Initially, Sherlock seemed to think that John would prove to be intolerable, but John thought their conversation had gone fairly well.

Sherlock stood up, putting his coat on. “We’ll meet here on Thursdays at 7 pm. Bring your notes and try not to act like an idiot.”

As John watched the door swing closed, the only thought that filtered through the rush of relief was that his new tutor was terribly fond of dramatic exits. John couldn’t stop grinning. He dropped a fiver in the tip jar on his way to the door, calling his thanks to Mrs. Hudson. There was a spring in his step as he made his way to class. Perhaps he wasn’t so doomed after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Sunday somewhere, right? This isn't late at all, right??

John half-ran down Baker Street, his chemistry binder clutched in one hand. He had been called into work at the last minute, and agreed to go (he could hardly afford to refuse) but told them he had to leave before 7:00. Of course, he hadn’t made it out until 6:50, which meant a mad dash to his room, a quick change of clothes, and a moment to lament the fact that he couldn’t shower. He had one foot out the door when he realized he had forgotten his notes, and it took him another few minutes to find his bag and root his binder out.

He arrived at Speedy’s at 7:15, stopping just outside to grab a few quick lungfuls of air. When he felt a bit more composed, he stepped inside. Sherlock, of course, was already sitting at a table, tapping away at his phone.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, still a bit breathless. He took the seat opposite Sherlock, plunking his stuff down beside him. Sherlock glanced up, flicking his eyes over John’s face. “I was - “

“Called into work at the last minute, I know,” Sherlock finished.

John nodded. “Right.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. “Let’s get started.”

“Uh, hold on,” John said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “How do you want to, um, deal with payment?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He paused. “I’m not really concerned about money, and I’m not sure how else you could pay me.”

“I’m not a charity case,” John said, voice hard.

“I know.”

There was a beat, and John softened a bit. “Well. You’re a genius, aren’t you? If you’re not interested in money, I’m sure you can think of some other way for me to pay you.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I’m sure I can. Now, where shall we start?”

“I was thinking thermodynamics,” John said, pulling out his notes.

Sherlock spent the next little while grilling John relentlessly to see how much he understood already. Sherlock’s messy, loopy writing overlayed John’s slightly neater words as he corrected his notes and sketched new diagrams.

Sherlock asked him about Clapeyton’s involvement in the ideal gas law, but when John started to reply, Sherlock turned his head, looking at a dark-haired man who was ordering. The man paid, and walked off in the direction of the toilet. Sherlock turned back to John after a moment, frowning slightly as though distracted, and John knew he had forgotten all about the question he had just asked.

“You okay?” John asked.

“Hmm? Yes, fine. I just need to use the loo.” Sherlock jumped up as if his chair had suddenly caught fire, and he was gone before John could say ‘sure.’

Either Sherlock was following the man into the bathroom, or he had just contracted a sudden case of food poisoning. Neither option sounded good to John, but he resolved to stay in his seat unless there was any sign of trouble. He reviewed the notes they had gone through already and realized that Sherlock’s writing was practically illegible in some places, crammed haphazardly into margins as it was. John wrote down what he remembered Sherlock correcting him on, but he’d have to ask Sherlock to decipher his own handwriting in some spots.

One minute passed, and then five. After ten minutes, John started to get antsy. He had visions of Sherlock being choked against the wall by the stranger, unable to yell for help. Or Sherlock unconscious on the floor, face drained of what little colour it had, the back door swinging open as the stranger escaped.

Before John even registered what he was doing, he was up and headed for the bathroom. He could hear muffled voices from inside, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He pushed the door open and saw that Sherlock and the man were facing each other, both quite agitated. They were so distracted that neither noticed John.

“... must tell him the truth, Mr. Moulton,” Sherlock was saying. “It’s the only way.”

“I won’t listen to this nonsense,” Mr. Moulton said. “You’re just a boy, for god’s sake!”

He turned, presumably to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Get _off_ ,” Moulton spat. He ripped his arm loose and promptly backhanded Sherlock across the face, the sharp _slap_ of flesh against flesh echoing in the small bathroom. Sherlock stumbled, face frozen in shock.

John saw red. It must have showed on his face, because when Moulton saw John blocking the door, he hesitated. A small part of John was pleased at the fact that he had that effect, despite being 18 years old and 170 cm. Moulton quickly regained his composure, though.

“Out of my way, boy,” he said. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

John smiled a small, grim smile. “Likewise.” And he dove for Moulton’s knees. He had obviously never played any tackle sports when he was younger, because it took John almost no effort to wrestle him onto his back. He sat on his chest, pinning Moulton’s arms down with his knees, and drew his arm back to deliver a punch.

“John, wait,” Sherlock called. John looked up. Sherlock was holding a hand to the skin under his eye, which was pink and already starting to swell. “Think about what the police will accept as self-defence and what will land you with a charge for assault.”

John cocked his head, adjusted the position of his fist, and landed a punch to Moulton’s jaw. Moulton howled, struggling in John’s hold.

“Consider yourself lucky,” John said. “Initially I was going to break your nose.” He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. “You okay?”

“I - Fine. I’ve had much worse.”

John frowned at the implications of that, but let it slide. “So, what now? Do we call the police, or…”

“Uh, yes, of course. The police.” Sherlock whipped his phone out and busied himself with relaying their situation and address. John heard him mention something about a case, and the names Hatty Doran and Sir Robert Simon, but he figured Sherlock would explain it all later.

“You should go tell Mrs. Hudson what’s happened,” John said as Sherlock slipped his phone back in his pocket. “And get something for your eye.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He returned several minutes later with an ice pack in his hand and three police officers trailing after him.

“That’s Francis Moulton,” Sherlock said, pointing at the man under John. He had long since stopped struggling, and he looked rather defeated.

A dark-skinned officer stepped forward. “John Watson, I am Detective Inspector Okar. You may release Mr. Moulton.” John got up and backed away, going to stand next to Sherlock. Moulton stood up slowly, rubbing his jaw and glaring at John.

“Sergeant Lestrade, if you would.” A brown-haired officer stepped forward, probably in his late twenties, and cuffed Moulton, reading him his rights.

John noticed that Sherlock’s ice pack was still dangling at his side, wrapped clumsily in a tea towel. “Y’know, you’re actually supposed to put that thing on your face,” he said. Sherlock frowned down at the ice pack as if it had personally offended him, but he lifted it to his eye regardless.

John nudged his shoulder and grinned. “You’re gonna have a real shiner tomorrow, Sherlock.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tilted up. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was good enough for John.

“I suppose I will.”

“John. Sherlock. You two will have to come down to the station until we get this mess cleared up,” Okar said.

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock said. “We’ll follow behind in a cab.”

Okar sighed. “Sorry, Sherlock. No can do.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock said, voice loud in the small bathroom. “No. Okar. Don’t be ridiculous. You know we’re not at fault. We won’t try to get away, what could we possibly gain from that?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re involved now, and I have to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s rubbish! You _know_ me - “

“Yes, I do, and that’s part of the problem. The other part of the problem is that I _don’t_ know your friend.”

“He’s with me.”

“I can see that.”

John didn’t know why Sherlock was so averse to travelling in a police car, but he didn’t particularly care. Sherlock was obviously distressed about it.

“I’ll go in a police car if he can go in a cab,” John offered. Okar raised an eyebrow at him, and then glanced at Sherlock.

“Alright,” he said. “Fine. I have a feeling you two like to stick together. Hopefully I’m right.”

Everyone left Speedy’s, and somehow Sherlock managed to hail a cab in about 6 seconds. Okar leaned in to talk to the driver while Sherlock rolled his eyes, fidgeting impatiently. The third officer, a woman who introduced herself as Sergeant Miller, led John to a police car.

They were at the station in a matter of minutes. Sergeant Lestrade led Moulton into an interrogation room, and Sherlock made to follow them, but Okar put a hand out to stop him. Sherlock frowned.

“Before a single hair on your head enters that room, you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock went to step forward, but Okar blocked him again.

“How is that man connected to Hatty Doran’s disappearance?”

Sherlock sighed. “It would be much easier for all of us if I explained it with Moulton present - “

“Moulton already knows how he’s connected. You need to tell _me_ so that I know what I’m up against when I go in there. So, what is it. Did he kidnap her?”

"Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted. He gestured with his half-frozen ice pack. “There was no sign of a struggle, and nothing suggested that she had been threatened or coerced into going away with someone. Therefore, she went willingly. With Francis Moulton, her husband.”

Okar frowned. “Hatty’s married to Sir Simon.”

“Yes, of course, but she’s _also_ married to Moulton. It’s obvious, if only you would look at the evidence.”

Okar looked as if he was going to say something else, but John cut in.

“Sorry, but what exactly are we talking about?”

Sherlock turned to him. “Two days ago, Hatty Doran went missing after her wedding reception. There was no sign of reluctance before or during the vows, and the only thing that happened out of the ordinary was that she dropped her bouquet. A man in the front row picked it up and handed it back to her. But she claimed illness at the reception, left to go to her room, and disappeared. Of course, I had to gather all this information from the newspapers, since the DI wouldn’t let me see any proper evidence or question the guests.” Here, Sherlock shot a glare at Okar, which Okar ignored with seemingly practiced ease.

“In any case, I recognised Moulton from a picture in the papers, and when he ordered two sandwiches and two coffees, I knew something was suspicious. He wasn’t married, or at least, his wife hadn’t been around, that much was obvious. But there he was, ordering for two, at 7:30 on a Thursday night. Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“Fantastic,” John said, grinning.

“Did you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock said.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

John cleared his throat. “So Hatty was, what, married twice? Why would she get married again?”

“When she married Moulton, they didn’t have enough money to support themselves. In desperation, Moulton travelled to the Philippines to try to sell his kidney on the black market. Of course, this was when they were just starting to crack down on organ selling, and Moulton got caught out right after his surgery. Almost everyone else was able to get away, but he was too weak to run, so they threw him in jail. He couldn’t get word to Hatty that he was still alive, so after five years, she gave him up as dead and decided to marry Sir Simon instead. Moulton made it back just in time to slip into the church and watch her hand herself over to another man.”

“How on Earth did you figure all that out?” John asked.

“Moulton told me that part in the loo.” 

“Oh,” Okar said, raising his eyebrows. “So you couldn’t figure it out for yourself?”

“I’m a genius, not a magician,” Sherlock snapped. “Can I see Moulton now? I’d rather like to convince him not to leave the country without telling Sir Simon what’s happened.”

It took Sherlock two minutes and a handful of harsh words to do just that. Sherlock informed him that he wouldn’t be pressing charges for assault (too much effort for a silly little black eye, apparently), which seemed to ease Moulton a least a bit. Okar got their statements after that, Sherlock huffing impatiently about the waste of time, and then they were free to go.

They stepped out into the chilly night air together. John shivered in his jumper. Then, all at once, he realised that his coat was still at Speedy’s, along with all of his chemistry notes. He checked his watch. It was after 9:30, which meant Mrs. Hudson had packed up at least an hour ago.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said. “I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know you’re coming around tomorrow to pick up your stuff.”

John laughed, his breath fogging up in front of him. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

Sherlock hailed a cab with a grace that John envied. “Coming?” he asked, ducking in.

John shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I do,” Sherlock said. “Get in.”

John was tempted to protest, but a breeze blew by, making his teeth rattle, and he climbed gratefully into the warm cab after a moment of hesitation. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, John was exhausted, but strangely content. Almost happy, in fact.

“I think I know how you can pay me,” Sherlock said, quite suddenly.

“Oh?”

Sherlock hesitated. “If you’re interested, I do often have need of… an assistant of sorts, when I’m solving cases. It helps when I have someone to talk to. And perhaps some of your medical knowledge would come in handy.”

“Yes,” John said. Sherlock turned his head to glance at him, something like shock flitting across his face.

“Well. I don’t keep anything resembling regular hours, so you have to be prepared at any time.”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re not useful I’ll just think of another way for you to pay me.”

“Yes, okay.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “That’s settled, then.” He sounded vaguely surprised.

The cab pulled over. “This is me,” John said. He stepped out. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then, if not sooner?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good night.”

“Good night, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the addition of an "Implied/Referenced Drug Use" tag.

The first time Sherlock stood John up, it was for a case. John texted Sherlock after half an hour, and Sherlock texted him back with an address and a vague explanation that involved statues and thugs. Of course, John hailed a cab without a second thought. Chasing criminals down dark alleyways turned out to be much more exciting than reviewing quantum theory.

The second time Sherlock stood John up, it was because of a time-sensitive experiment. When John saw Sherlock the next day, he seemed slower than usual, like a toy operating on dying batteries. It was a bit unnerving, honestly, but John didn’t have the audacity to question Sherlock about it.

The third time Sherlock stood John up, he wouldn’t answer his phone. John sent him eight texts and left six voicemail messages. He questioned Mrs. Hudson, texted Mike, and even resorted to calling the Met. No one knew where Sherlock was, but no one seemed very concerned about it. He told himself that he was worrying without reason; after all, Sherlock himself had said ‘ _sometimes I disappear for days on end_.’ He probably got caught up in an experiment, or his phone died while he followed up on a lead. Logically, John knew it was too early to get the police involved, so he left Sherlock one last voicemail, and turned in for the night.

He didn’t sleep a wink.

John checked his phone first thing the next morning. Nothing. He had classes that day, and work in the evening, so he had to settle for sending Sherlock periodic texts.

He went straight down to Speedy’s after class.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John called, entering the shop. She popped out of the kitchen.

“Hello, John,” she said. “Would you like to sit down? Have a cuppa?”

“No thanks, not today. I was just wondering if you’ve seen Sherlock?”

“No, not since you asked me yesterday. He tends to disappear like this sometimes.” Her eyes crinkled in a small, fond smile. 

“Well, do you know of any places in London where Sherlock likes to disappear to?”

Mrs. Hudson hesitated. “I wouldn’t fuss too much, dear, he always comes back eventually.”

“Yeah, I just want to make sure he’s not getting himself killed or something.”

She sighed, slumping a little. “Well, if you’re dead set on looking, you might find him at Parliament Hill or Camden Lock. Maybe even Dagmar Court.” 

John nodded, committing the names to memory. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ll find him, John.”

“I hope so.”

John took the tube straight to the nearest location, which happened to be Camden Lock. The market was just closing down when he arrived, vendors packing up half their merchandise and selling the rest dirt cheap. John poked around the shops, pretending to be a last minute customer. He searched the whole building, and the area around it, but found no sign of Sherlock. He had similar luck at Parliament Hill, although John had a nagging feeling that Sherlock could easily get into places that John was unable to go.

Dagmar was another thing entirely. A street of civilian houses, with plenty of nooks and crannies for a skinny detective to hide in. John crept around, coat collar up, ducking behind fences and shrubs at any hint of movement around him. There were a few close calls that had his heart thumping in his chest, but no one caught him out.

After two hours, John had to call it a night. A light rain had started, and if he didn’t hurry up he’d miss the last tube and have to walk an hour and a half back to campus.

The station was almost empty, a few tired employees blinking themselves awake as John passed by. A couple of dull-eyed passengers accompanied him on the tube. John felt completely at odds with them. Despite being damp and wandering around in the cold for endless hours, he wasn’t tired. Residual adrenaline traced paths along his veins, and somehow, his failure to find Sherlock did nothing but make him even more determined.

He hopped off at his station, which was completely vacant, and climbed the stairs to the surface. It was raining in earnest now, and the switch from fluorescent lights to darkness meant that John didn’t see them coming until he was being knocked over the head.

John grunted, but managed to stay on his feet. He stumbled and turned around, avoiding a fist to the ribs from a large, brutish looking man by about three inches. John could make out another man standing behind him. He whipped out his pocketknife, flicked the blade out, and hoped to God that luck was on his side.

Four minutes and one possibly broken nose later, the two men were lying on the ground and John was calling 999. He stood there, soaked and panting and swallowing mouthfuls of his own blood, and wondered if he had ever felt so alive.

By the time John counted to two hundred, two police cars and an ambulance had arrived, and one of the men had started to stir. Once the paramedics confirmed that their injuries were minor, the two men were led into a police car with much protest. Meanwhile, another paramedic examined John. He told him that his nose wasn’t broken, just badly bruised, and he could go over to the police station to give his statement now as long as he promised to ice it later.

The police station seemed far too bright for John’s sore eyes. Somebody gave him tissues and an ice pack, and sat him down in a plastic chair with instructions to wait for someone to fetch him. John dabbed at his nose uselessly, the adrenaline beginning to release its hold on him, leaving him exhausted and awash with pain.

“John?”

John started. He knew that voice.

“Sherlock?”

John turned, and there he was, sitting not four seats away from him. He looked even thinner than usual, and he had terribly dark circles around his eyes, but otherwise, he looked fine.

“What are you doing here?” John asked, at the same time that Sherlock said “What the _hell_ happened to you?”

John glanced down at himself. He was completely soaked, blood smeared on his face and clothes, and he still had his pocketknife clutched in one hand.

“Um. I got mugged.”

Sherlock squinted at him. “Did you break your nose?”

“No, but it was a close call.”

“How many were there?”

“Two.”

Sherlock bit his lip, a strange light in his eyes. “And you incapacitated both of them with a pocketknife?”

“Well. Yeah, I guess so.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up, and John found himself smiling in kind, the movement stretching sore skin across bruised flesh.

“So, why are you here, anyway? And why wouldn’t you answer my texts?” John asked.

Sherlock’s expression faltered, and suddenly, Okar appeared behind him.

“He’s here to get tested for drugs,” Okar said.

John huffed a laugh. “Really?” He looked to Sherlock for reassurance, but Sherlock just frowned at him. “I’m sure you could test him all night and not find anything you could call _recreational_.”

“John, you might want to shut up now,” Sherlock said, voice hard.

John’s eyes widened. “What?” He glanced from Sherlock, to Okar, to Sherlock again. “ _You?_ ”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snapped.

“Okay.” John cleared his throat. Frowned at the blood-soaked tissues in his hand. Looked back up at Okar. “He’s not - he’s not in a lot of trouble, is he?”

Okar sighed. “I’m letting him go with a final warning. Really, it’s against my better judgement, but I know how helpful he can be when he’s sober.” He turned to Sherlock. “This really is your last chance. If I catch you again, I’ll have to press charges.”

“Understood,” Sherlock said.

“Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“Yes, Inspector.” Sherlock spared one last glance for John, and then he was pulling his coat on and sweeping down the hall and out the doors.

“John,” Okar said. “Keep an eye on him. I’d hate to see him go to waste.”

“Will do,” John said, and then he was alone.

Just as he was leaving the station, John got a text.

_Speedy’s, 6pm tomorrow._

_SH_

The rain began to wash away the blood on his face, and John smiled at nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: erections

John and Sherlock slipped easily back into their routine. Of course, John hadn’t forgotten the fact that Sherlock had disappeared for two days to get high (“Cocaine. Seven percent solution,” Sherlock had said the next day, in response to his unspoken question). But, being a good Englishman in-training, he ignored the queasy feeling he got every time he pictured Sherlock holed up in a drug den, and kept his mouth shut.

Their tutoring sessions progressed quickly. Sherlock was a good tutor, but he was hardly patient. He huffed and sighed and made abrasive comments about John’s mental capacity when he had to repeat himself too often, but he wouldn’t give up on a topic until he was convinced that John understood it wholly and completely. As a result, they sped through sections much faster than John had anticipated.

Between classes, his part-time job, tutoring, and helping Sherlock with cold cases, John felt like he barely even had time to eat and sleep. And yet, when Sherlock texted him after a long day of classes and work, John abandoned the notion of his warm, comfortable bed with barely a second thought. He told himself it was because that was the only way he paid Sherlock for their tutoring sessions, that skipping out on cases would be like refusing to pay. But he knew that was only part of it, and he wasn’t entirely willing to examine what his other reasons might be.

One day, John arrived at Speedy’s for a tutoring session, and found it closed. He peered in through the window, and saw that all the furniture had been removed, the counters cleared off, and the floor was covered in sheets. He caught sight of Mrs. Hudson in the corner. He knocked on the door, and Mrs. Hudson turned, smiling when she saw him. She bustled over to the door and unlocked it.

“Mrs. Hudson? Is everything okay?”

“Of course, everything’s fine, dear. I’m repainting, so I’ll be closed this week. Didn’t Sherlock tell you?”

John frowned. “Uh, no, actually, he didn’t. We were supposed to have a tutoring session today.”

Mrs. Hudson shifted her gaze past John’s shoulder. “Oh, Sherlock, there you are. I told you I’d be repainting this week, don’t you remember?”

John turned. Sherlock was staring through the window, a slight crease marring his forehead.

“Must have deleted it,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Sorry, boys. Isn’t there somewhere else you can meet for this week?”

John hesitated, glancing at Sherlock. “There’s a library on campus at the university?”

“No.”

“Well, what about your house?”

“No.” There was a hard edge to Sherlock’s voice, so John didn’t question him on that one.

“Do you have any suggestions, then, genius?”

“You have a room on campus. That would be suitable.”

John sighed. “I suppose so.”

They bid Mrs. Hudson farewell and made their way to the campus. Sherlock seemed to know exactly where John’s room was, heading towards the right building and punching the right button on the elevator without any cues from John. He wondered if he’d ever get used to that. If he’d ever get used to Sherlock.

John entered his room first, conscious of the mess. He tried to clean up a little, chucking a pair of underwear into his overflowing laundry basket, shoving some papers off his desk so he had room to work. Sherlock seemed completely oblivious. He stepped forward slowly, his gaze darting around, and John fancied he could see the deductions forming behind Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes.

There was only one chair, which John offered to Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored him and went to sit on the bed instead. His presence was almost overwhelming in the tiny space, filling the room and making it seem even smaller, closer. The feeling was so at odds with the sight of Sherlock’s slight, awkward frame perched on his bed that John smiled in spite of himself.

Sherlock frowned at him. “What?” he said, sounding mildly affronted.

“Nothing,” John said. “You’re just awfully big for a skinny bastard.”

“I’m not entirely sure I know what that means,” Sherlock said. Definitely affronted.

John shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s start.”

They started with organic chemistry, one of John’s strong points, and Sherlock got up and paced while he fired questions at him. Once in a while, he leaned over John’s shoulder to supplement his notes, arms brushing as he scrawled across the page and talked in John’s ear.

After almost an hour, John called for a break. He plugged the kettle in (which he technically wasn’t supposed to have in his room, but John would rather be told off than have to go a whole year without accessible tea). He vaguely noticed Sherlock poking around, sticking his nose in drawers and sniffing at his old rugby clothes. John just left him to it, going about his business of tea for two.

The kettle was boiled and John was filling their mugs when Sherlock said “John, I didn’t know you were bisexual.”

John turned, heart in his throat, to find Sherlock crouched by his bed, an old edition of _Boyz Magazine_ in hand.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hissed. “Christ, put that back.”

To John’s dismay, Sherlock blatantly ignored him, standing up and leafing through the magazine. He looked like he was trying to suppress a smile.

“I’ll give you this – you have good taste.”

John almost choked on his own saliva. He lunged forward, reaching for the magazine, but Sherlock stretched his arm up and away, using his height to his advantage.

“Give it _back_ , you tit,” John said, grabbing at Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock didn’t even bother hiding his smile anymore. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, John.”

John gritted his teeth, stepping back. He wasn’t exactly mad, even though he felt like he should be. He just wanted Sherlock to respect his _goddamn_ privacy. He watched the smile fade from Sherlock’s face when he shifted his stance.

Before Sherlock could get a single word out, John tackled him, rugby-style, and they both went sprawling to the floor. The magazine slid out of Sherlock’s hand and across the floor. Sherlock struggled underneath him, huffing and wriggling and searching out John’s weak spots. He managed to catch him in the ribs, but John had been in enough skirmishes that it didn’t throw him. He finally got Sherlock pinned, straddling his hips and planting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

John chuckled. “You put up a better fight than Moulton, I’ll give you that.”

Sherlock went very still underneath him. “John, get off,” he said, voice slightly strained.

John frowned. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that was panic in his eyes.

“ _Now_ , John, get off _now_ ,” Sherlock said (definitely panicked), and that’s when John felt it. A subtle, unmistakable nudge against his lower stomach.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, are you – “

“Shut up.” Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Who’s bisexual now?” John said, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

“I’m not bisexual.”

“Oh. You’re gay, then?”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must put a label on my sexuality, then yes, homosexual is the most accurate.”

“Don’t like labels?”

“They make me itchy,” Sherlock mumbled. He sounded like a petulant child. “If you’d be so kind as to get off me.”

John chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You know, I rather like it down here. Maybe I’ll stay a while.” He lowered himself onto his elbows, shifting carefully so that their hips aligned. Sherlock swallowed.

He was so close, and all John could think was how easy it would be to lean forward and claim that ridiculous mouth, how nice it would be to settle his weight on top of Sherlock and feel him arch against him, how good it would feel if Sherlock moaned into his mouth, and John was tipping forward without realising it, bumping their noses together, and Sherlock’s breath fanned out against his mouth - 

“John, wait.”

John waited. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s and counted to five, slowly. “What?” he asked.

“I can’t… I - I don’t know if I can have a relationship with you.”

A few words had John feeling like an iron fist had punched him in the chest. He pulled back immediately. “Sorry,” he said, shame and disappointment already welling up in his throat. “Sorry.” He gingerly lifted himself off of Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up, awkwardly shielding his crotch with his forearms, face a bit flushed and hair in disarray. “It’s fine,” he said. There was a pause. “I didn’t mean that I don’t want - that I don’t _want_ , but... I have some baggage, and I don’t think you’d be willing to shoulder that burden.”

John settled on the floor opposite him. “What kind of baggage?”

“Nothing I can tell you.”

John was caught off guard by how much that hurt. He had only known Sherlock for, what, two weeks? And he already expected him to be willing to divulge his deepest secrets. Perhaps he shouldn’t have assumed that his inherent, ill-judged trust was fully reciprocated.

“Well, how can you know I wouldn’t be willing to take it on if you won’t tell me what it is?”

Sherlock sighed, a sound that was much too world-weary for a bright-eyed 17 year old detective. “John, I’m enough trouble on my own. Even without my past, I might doubt your sanity if you ever thought I was worth caring about.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “First of all, you idiot, of course I care about you. You’re my friend. And second of all, can’t I decide for myself whether I want you or not?”

“I…”

John sighed. “Look, you don’t have to tell me about it, at least not now. Just think about it, okay? And I’ll wait, however long you want, as long as you just think about it and get back to me.”

“Yes. Alright. Yes.”

John stood up, reaching down to give Sherlock a hand. “Brilliant,” he said, smiling. “Then let’s finish organic chemistry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know what _Boyz Magazine_ is? Google. I implore you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More implied drug use in this chapter, and a bit of kissing and wine. But it gets worse before it gets better, I'm afraid. You've been warned.

They continued their tutoring sessions in John’s room. Sherlock seemed determined to keep everything the way it was before their conversation the other day. He invaded John’s personal space just as much as before, and he was just as relentless as a tutor. 

John attempted to do the same, but he wasn’t quite as successful as Sherlock. Sometimes, when he rattled off deductions faster than John could think, he found himself just staring, mesmerised, at Sherlock’s mouth and his eyes and his grand sweeping hand gestures. That in itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, but now, John couldn’t help imagining those eyes and that mouth and those hands turning their attention to _him_. Once, when Sherlock caught his gaze, he must have seen something of those thoughts on John’s face, because his deductions stuttered to a halt.

“Fantastic,” John said, because that’s what he always said.

“You weren’t even listening, were you.”

“Didn’t hear a word.” John grinned cheekily, and Sherlock’s face flushed.

Okar sighed. “Not to interrupt you boys, but there is a case you should be attending to.”

“Search the uncle’s flat. If you find a lock of blonde hair, it’s a scam. Come on, John.”

Sherlock swept out of the room, John in tow, and Okar hoped to God they would wait for privacy before they did anything uncouth.

Sherlock and John stepped outside together, arms brushing.

“Lunch?” Sherlock asked. “I know a good Italian place nearby.”

“Sounds good, I’m starving.”

Sherlock’s gait stuttered. John stopped, turning back to look at him.

“John.” Sherlock spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “I’m not saying yes.”

John smiled. “I know. It’s just lunch. Come on.”

Sherlock breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief, and they continued on their way.

The restaurant, Angelo’s, was quiet and secluded. John imagined it would be busier at dinner time, but at half past noon there were only two other customers. Angelo himself was a big, boisterous man, inviting them in and gesturing them into a corner booth.

“Sherlock!” he boomed. “I haven’t seen you in ages, lad. And you’ve come with a date! Let me get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic.”

John glanced at Sherlock at the word _date_ , looking for signs that he was uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem affected. John didn’t bother correcting Angelo.

As promised, Angelo returned a few short moments later with a candle and two menus. “Order anything you want from the menu, lads, it’s on the house.” Angelo disappeared with a promise to come back for their orders in a few minutes.

“Does he always give you free food?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked a bit. “Only when he’s in a good mood. Which is often.”

They ordered their food (John insisted that Sherlock eat - he knew for a fact that his stomach had been empty for at least 48 hours). Sherlock regaled John with stories about clever kleptomaniacs and thick-headed sergeants, shockingly real alibis and elusive evidence. He ate mindlessly, swallowing pasta between words. In the close corner their elbows jostled for space, but not enough that either felt the need to move away. Halfway through their meal, Sherlock ordered a bottle of wine. Angelo hadn’t flinched at the request, and John raised his eyebrows when the man left.

“Don’t you need an adult to buy alcohol for you if you’re under 18?” he asked.

Sherlock waved him off. “Angelo will be covering the cost anyway, so in sense, an adult _is_ buying it for me.”

It felt strange to be drinking wine with Sherlock, especially in the afternoon. As if they were playing at being adults, with their own jobs and lives, completely independent of their families. It was exhilarating.

As the bottle of wine slowly emptied, John found his eyes drifting. They latched onto a stray curl, watched Sherlock’s jaw tense and relax, followed the flex and roll of the tendons in his hands. He felt loose and pliable, his legs stretched out under the table, feet nudging against Sherlock’s. His thigh pressed against Sherlock’s bony knee, but instead of being irritating, it made John’s chest twist strangely.

Outside, the sky had turned a stormy grey. Angelo turned the lights on, giving everything a warm yellow tint. John stared at Sherlock. Maybe it was the wine, but he felt like he couldn’t look away, like he was a magnet and Sherlock was North, and Sherlock had stopped talking at some point but he wasn’t sure when that had happened. 

It was the wine, it must be the wine. That’s why they were just staring at each other over their empty plates. That’s why neither of them broke the silence, that’s why John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw desire there, that’s why John wanted to reach across the table and - and _take_ him.

Well. Sherlock would have to order more than one bottle of wine for that to happen.

Instead, John slid his hand under the table and squeezed Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock swallowed and broke eye contact. He emptied the last bit of wine into John’s glass.

“We should leave before the rain starts,” he said. John left his hand on Sherlock’s knee and downed the wine with the other hand.

They managed to hail a cab about five seconds before the first fat droplets fell. They scrambled in, sitting much closer than necessary. John giggled in Sherlock’s ear.

“I can’t believe you got us a bottle of wine with _lunch_. You’re lucky I don’t have any afternoon classes today.”

The rain fell harder, sounding like tiny pebbles on the roof of the cab. John leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder, turning his head until he felt Sherlock’s coat under his cheek.

He drifted off in the warm confines of the cab, head lolling, and when Sherlock called his name to announce his stop, he wasn’t sure if he had imagined lips in his hair or not.

John wasn’t quite drunk enough to _stumble_ into his room, but there was certainly a swagger to his gait that wasn’t normally there. His mind kept circling around the past two hours (or had it been three?). He wondered what would have happened if he had taken Sherlock’s hand in the restaurant. If he had held those pale, spindly digits to his mouth. What if he had brushed Sherlock’s thigh under the table? Rubbed his thumb along the inseam of his trousers? Would Sherlock have ignored him? Stared at him with half-lidded eyes and parted lips, fisted a hand in his shirt and crushed their mouths together right there in the restaurant? If John had pressed his face into Sherlock’s long, pale neck in the cab, would Sherlock have backed him up against the door and snogged him senseless, slipped a hand under his shirt, moaned when John tugged at his curls?

If things had gone differently, would they be together in John’s bed now?

John sighed. He was so far gone. He was so far gone, and he _wanted_ , but he was alone in his room, half-hard and buzzed, and it wasn’t even five in the afternoon. He flicked the kettle on and resisted the urge to palm himself through his jeans, because somehow, that felt like a betrayal.

Four hours, three cups of tea, and one sandwich later, John felt much more sober. He had burned through a few pages of an essay, and he was just pulling out his bio homework when someone knocked on the door. John frowned. He rarely got unannounced visitors after dark.

“Who is it?” he called.

“John?” The voice was strangely muffled, but unmistakable. John stood up, but Sherlock tumbled through the door before he got a chance to open it.

Sherlock was twitching and shivering and soaked, and the moment his glassy eyes caught sight of John, he lurched forward and curled his hands in John’s shirt, making him stumble backwards. Sherlock pushed his trembling face against John’s neck.

“John, thank God, they almost got me,” he gasped.

Fierce concern overtook John’s confusion. “Who almost got you?”

“ _Everyone_ , John. But I lost them on the way here.”

John flicked on the overhead light. Sherlock whined, saying it was too bright, but John wouldn’t have it. He took Sherlock’s chin in his hand and looked him in the eyes.

“No one is out to get you, Sherlock,” he said, voice hard. “You’re high.”

Sherlock just stared at him, wide-eyed and panting.

John forced himself to relax a little. He turned off the light so that his desk lamp was the only thing illuminating the room. “I suppose you ran here? In the rain?” he said.

“Yes. None of the cabs would take me,” Sherlock said. He swayed a little. Hesitated. “C-Can I stay?”

And how on Earth could John say no to him.

John helped him change out of his wet clothes. Sherlock flinched when anything touched his skin, and he outright refused to rub himself down with a towel. John suspected his skin was hypersensitive, even the lightest touch registering as pain. He was at least able to convince him to put on a pair of borrowed pants, and pat his dripping mop of hair partially dry.

Sherlock tried to tug John’s shirt over his head. John fought against him half-heartedly. “What - Sherlock - what are you doing.”

“Your shirt is made of sandpaper,” Sherlock informed him. He managed to get his shirt off.

“How come you can touch me, but you can’t be bothered to wear clothes?”

Sherlock nuzzled his temple. “Doesn’t hurt when I touch you,” he mumbled. “Take me to bed.”

John’s heart stopped. “ _What_?” He took a step back, and Sherlock took a step forward. He bent his head and nudged his mouth up against John’s, humming.

Heat sparked in John’s stomach, and _God_ , he couldn’t help it. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him back, kissed him hard and open-mouthed, kissed him until he was breathless and moaning.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock breathed into his mouth.

John pulled back, a potent mixture of regret and shame coiling in his chest. It was a lousy way for a first kiss to happen.

“I can’t,” he said, all too aware of how easy it would be.

Sherlock frowned. “You want to,” he said. John couldn’t deny it, so he stayed silent.

Then Sherlock took a sudden, shuddering breath. “You don’t want to,” he said. He took a step back, eyes wide, and then another. “You never wanted to. You never wanted - “ Sherlock broke off, voice wavering.

“Sherlock…”

“It’s fine,” he said, voice deliberately steady, and tried to brush past John.

John caught his arm. “Hang on.”

Sherlock ripped his arm out of John’s grasp. “ _No_ ,” he hissed. “I _won’t_ let this happen again. I won’t let you.”

“Won’t let me what?”

Sherlock let out a harsh breath. “I can’t.”

That conversation was going nowhere fast, so John switched tact. “Well. You can’t go anywhere like that. So just - come to bed, just to sleep, and we’ll work things out in the morning.”

“I’m not tired,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock hesitated. “But - “

“Please. For me.” John could see Sherlock trembling, even in the semi-darkness.

“Yes. Fine,” he said, finally.

So John changed into pajama pants and clambered into bed, squeezing over to make room on the left. When Sherlock didn’t join him immediately, he peeled back the covers. Sherlock climbed in carefully beside him, so that they were face-to-face. John flicked off the lamp.

Sherlock had put just enough space between them to avoid all contact. It was quiet for a bit, and John listened to Sherlock’s slightly elevated breathing, felt the way the bed dipped beside him, looked at the faint outline of Sherlock’s unruly hair on his pillow.

“It’s very likely that I’ll have vivid nightmares,” Sherlock said.

John smiled grimly, despite the fact that Sherlock couldn’t see him. “Join the club.”

Neither said anything else. They listened to each other breath in the dark, and after a while, John lifted his arm up and out, creating a Sherlock-sized space in front of him. As if waiting (or hoping) for an invitation, Sherlock shuffled forward immediately, curling his arms to his chest and fitting his head in the hollow of John’s neck. He huffed out a breath against John’s skin, and John felt him relax a bit.

Eventually, they both drifted off. Sherlock twitched in the confines of John’s arms, sometimes making small, distressed sounds. Occasionally, he kicked, or rolled over, or cried out, and John was pulled out of unconsciousness just long enough to murmur something soothing and stroke his back before he slipped back under. It wasn’t a particularly restful night for either of them. But when the first rays of weak gray light filtered through the window, they fell on two figures, fast asleep, ensconced in blankets and each other, and breathing in tandem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I've set the total chapter count to 8. Unless something changes, chapter 7 will wrap up the story, and chapter 8 will be a bit of a bonus surprise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating changed to mature for swearing and dicks.

John woke up sweating. His head was almost completely under the covers, and the air clogging his throat felt hot and damp and heavy. Sherlock was pressed up against his front, breathing hot morning breath against his chest and drooling a little bit. And John’s pants were much tighter than they had been a few hours ago. He huffed, pulling the covers down. He was unwilling to get out of bed, but he didn’t really want Sherlock to wake up with someone else’s erection snug against his stomach. So John scooted carefully away from him and squeezed his thighs together.

But as soon as John moved, Sherlock shifted and rolled over, turning so that his back was to John’s front, and stretched, leaning against him. One spidery hand landed on his hip, and his arse shifted dangerously close to John’s crotch. John exhaled heavily, forcing himself to stay still despite the warm, pale flesh pressed enticingly against him. Sherlock sighed, and one of his legs slipped back between John’s.

John shuddered, barely suppressing a moan. He couldn’t do this. He shifted back as much as he could on the narrow bed, carefully removed Sherlock’s hand from his hip, untangled their legs, and slipped out of bed. Sherlock huffed and wriggled a bit, but didn’t wake up. John made his escape to the bathroom, where he climbed into the shower. He stood under the cold spray and thought about how deep he had fallen into this, whatever _this_ was. He didn’t know what they were doing anymore. He didn’t know why Sherlock thought he couldn’t have a relationship with him. For God’s sake, _he_ didn’t know why he wanted to be with Sherlock. The stupid git had gone off and injected himself with cocaine, and then came straight to John’s room and _kissed_ him as if he wasn’t high as a kite. Did Sherlock even remember that John had asked him to think about them, as a couple?

John scrubbed his hands over his face, grunting. He had to get this mess sorted out. Maybe Sherlock was content with their strange, mixed-signal arrangement, but John certainly wasn’t. Besides, his libido couldn't take this pendulum act much longer.

He turned off the taps, scrubbed himself down, and put his pajamas back on. When he entered his room again, Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed, pulling his trousers on. He looked up when John came in.

“Ah,” he said, slumping a little. “I was hoping to be gone by the time you came back.”

Sherlock said it so casually, but it actually hurt a bit, knowing that he had planned on skipping out without an explanation or even a goodbye.

“You really think I’d let you get off that easy?” John said. He struggled to keep his voice light.

“It was worth a shot.” Sherlock stood up, managing to look grand and sharp despite being in nothing but his trousers and supposedly waking up less than ten minutes ago. “Don’t you have a class starting soon?”

The thought had crossed John’s mind, but… “Chemistry can wait. Mike’ll take notes for me.” John paused, steeling himself. “I think we need to talk.”

“If you’re going to try to convince me to stop doing drugs, you can save your breath. Others have tried, to no avail.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Right. Well. That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind, then?”

The words that had been nesting in John’s throat suddenly made themselves scarce, and John found himself at a loss.

“Um,” he said, spectacularly, and began the motions of making tea for two. The faint sounds of the kettle calmed his nerves a little bit, and he blurted out “Why don’t you think you can be in a relationship?”

Sherlock frowned. “John - “

“Don’t just say ‘I can’t,’ that’s bull.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Sherlock spoke, voice low and hard.

“Fine. You want to know. Fine.” He took a breath. “Last year, I became sexually involved with someone named Victor Trevor. At first, I made it clear that there was to be no emotional component to our relationship, and he agreed. But as time passed, I found that I rather enjoyed his company. I took a liking to him. He went along with it.” Sherlock’s frown deepened, and he seemed to retreat further into himself. “The end of the school year came around, and although he didn’t seem to have anything against me, he didn’t contact me at all during the summer. He’s a year older than me, so I assume he went off to university. I haven’t heard from him since.”

John blinked, absorbing the story. “Victor sounds like a jerk, but as far as tragic backstories, I’ve heard worse.”

Sherlock scowled. The kettle clicked, boiled water gurgling, but neither of them noticed.

“Really. Why does one bad relationship make you think you can’t have a good one?”

“It’s not Victor, it’s _me_ ,” he snapped. “I know people find me attractive, and I know you think you want me, but you don’t, John, not really.”

Something squeezed tight in John’s chest, and when he spoke, it was much louder than he had intended. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I want. This is about you, and whatever stupid notions you’ve got stuck in that big brain of yours.”

“That’s ridiculous, I don’t have any ‘stupid notions’ - “

“Then what the _fuck_ is your problem?” John barked out. “You’ve been giving me mixed signals for a week, for God’s sake, make up your mind! One second, you act like we’re just mates, like nothing has happened, and the next, you’re asking me to _take you to bed_? I can’t - “ John clenched his fists and made an effort to soften his voice. “It’s driving me mad. I’ll take whatever you give me, Sherlock, but you have to make up your mind soon, because we can’t keep doing this.”

Sherlock nodded once, eyes solemn. “I agree,” he said. He picked up his shirt and starting putting it on. Having exhausted both his words and his emotional capacity for the day, John said nothing, and Sherlock left without another word.

It was a couple days before Sherlock contacted him again. A few hours later, John found himself sneaking into an indoor public pool at 11:30 pm, an unusually quiet, determined detective leading the way. He wasn’t entirely sure why they were there, or whether or not he could actually be useful - Sherlock had mumbled something about decomposition rates and chlorine content and left it at that - but if he was being honest with himself, there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be. Not that he’d ever admit that to Sherlock.

The pool deck was terribly dark, the only dim light coming from the street outside the window. Sherlock knelt down, flicking his torch on, and began rummaging through the mysterious bag of equipment that he brought with him. John recognized a thermometer, an old watch, a few tiny containers, and a ziploc bag of litmus paper.

John kicked off his shoes and socks. He was pulling off his shirt when Sherlock finally caught on, halting in the middle of attaching the thermometer to the side of the pool.

“John? What are you doing?”

“Having a swim.”

“Why?”

John shrugged (although Sherlock probably didn’t see it). “How many times do you get a chance to swim in an empty pool at quarter to midnight?”

“At least once,” Sherlock said. John could picture the condescending eyebrow-raise that likely accompanied those words. Sherlock turned back to the pool. “Do what you must.”

“Thanks for your permission,” John scoffed, although he couldn’t bring himself to be properly annoyed. He shucked his trousers and tested the water with his toes. Surprisingly, it was still heated - John supposed it was so that the pool didn’t cool off at night and then take forever to heat up in the morning. He padded around to the deep end. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see to the bottom of the pool from where he stood. A thought occurred to him.

“Hey, Sherlock!” he called. “Any chance we could get the pool lights on?”

“The remote control is in the lifeguard’s office.”

Fate must have been on John’s side, because the office was unlocked. He had a feeling that he couldn’t have cajoled Sherlock into picking the lock for him, not for something so trivial, and not when he was in the middle of collecting supposedly important data. He flicked on the light, and found the remote after a bit of rummaging around. He turned the pool lights on, and then did his best to put everything back where it was before.

Without further ado, he leapt onto the nearest diving board and did a cannonball into the now-lit pool, letting out a yell before he hit the water. He was grinning when he resurfaced, the thrill of their slightly illegal evening making his blood pump a bit faster. He watched as the ripples he made reached Sherlock on the other end of the pool. Sherlock was bent over, unperturbed by the disturbance in the water. The pool lights lit up his face, making him seem even paler than usual.

John did a few laps, attempted (and almost perfected) handstands in the shallow end, and practiced underwater somersaults. At one point when he came up for air, he caught Sherlock staring at him. Sherlock looked away and sat back on his heels.

“I’m finished here.”

John pushed off and swam over to Sherlock. “You could join me for a bit. The water’s warm.”

Sherlock deftly put his equipment away. “I have no interest in swimming just because you think it’s a once in a lifetime chance to do something mildly illegal and get wet.”

John could have left it at that, but for some reason he felt compelled to keep at it, to convince Sherlock, somehow or another, to come into the water.

“Come on, Sherlock. You’ve been so serious lately, you should try to have some fun.”

Sherlock scowled. “I don’t think our definitions of ‘fun’ are synonymous.” John noted that although Sherlock sounded spiteful, he hadn’t made any move to leave or stand up, even though his supplies were all packed. He grinned, coming a bit closer to the edge of the pool.

“I could splash you. Then you’d already be wet, and there would be no point in refusing to come in anymore.”

Sherlock squinted, inching back from the edge a little bit.

John paused. Then he lifted his torso out of the water, leaning forward on his elbows, and caught Sherlock’s ankle. Sherlock tensed and swallowed, but made no move to escape John’s grasp. “Or I could just drag you in,” John said, voice quiet and level.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock said. He sounded a bit breathless.

“I think I would.” And just for good measure, he gave Sherlock’s ankle a quick tug, making him slide forward about an inch or so.

Sherlock jerked. “ _John_ ,” he said, sounding almost panicked. “Stop, stop, I’ll come in. Now let go of me.”

John grinned, letting go of his ankle and sliding back into the water. “I knew you’d see it my way.” 

He pushed off from the pool wall, giving Sherlock some space while he stripped down to his pants. He looked over as Sherlock started down the stairs, and was struck by how young and vulnerable he looked. He seemed to be made entirely of points and angles, gangly arms hanging awkwardly by his sides, his thin, pale chest contrasted by dark hair and black boxers. The lighting emphasised the bruised shadows under his eyes, and John had a sudden image of Sherlock lying on a dirty mattress in some condemned building, slack-jawed, pupils blown wide. John breathed out, dispelling the unpleasant image as he made his way closer to Sherlock.

“Tell me, John,” Sherlock said. “What do normal teenagers do for ‘fun’ in pools.”

John had a sudden flashback to two years ago, when he went over to Vicky Saunders house in the summer and they had a glorious snog in her outdoor pool.

“Um,” he stammered. His face felt uncomfortably hot. “We could race - ”

“You would win, I’ve always been a slow swimmer.”

“Marco polo?”

“Really, John? That game has been boring since I was seven years old.”

That’s when John got an idea. “Oh! How about this?” he said, and promptly splashed Sherlock in the face. 

“ _What _?” Sherlock spluttered, covering his eyes with his arm. But John wouldn’t stop at that.__

__“Splash war!” he yelled, sweeping his hand along the surface of the pool. Sherlock finally got ahold of himself and returned fire, but by then John had ducked underwater. However, when he resurfaced a few seconds later, Sherlock was ready for him, and he was sprayed straight in the face. John let out a yell, and then dissolved into giggles as they continued splashing each other relentlessly._ _

__“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock gasped. John could just barely see him grinning through the spray of water, and it was a sight for sore eyes._ _

__“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”_ _

__They went at each other for a bit longer before John had had enough. He dove forward, tackling Sherlock, who yelped in surprise. There was a bit of a struggle, but John found it quite easy to maneuver him into a corner of the pool and pin his arms down._ _

__“Oh God, I surrender, _I surrender_ ,” Sherlock bit out. He wriggled in John’s grasp, breathing hard. The ripples around them faded, and suddenly it was very quiet. Sherlock stared at him._ _

__“John.”_ _

__“Hm?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__John’s breath caught. “Yes, what?”_ _

__Without another word, Sherlock gripped his arms and surged forward, covering John’s mouth with his own. John made a choked kind of noise. He pulled back long enough to hiss “ _Thank fucking God_ ,” and then they were kissing, and Sherlock was wrapping his arms around his back, and John was cupping his face in his hands. He ran his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock opened his mouth with a faint moan._ _

__After that, everything melted into a warm blur, only a few moments standing clear and sharp. The tickle of Sherlock’s hair against his temple, the brush of their tongues, Sherlock’s fingers digging into his flesh as if making sure he couldn’t go anywhere. Then Sherlock gasped “Stairs,” and it was the most brilliant idea he had ever heard from that mouth._ _

__They fumbled their way over to the stairs, kissing and groping, unwilling to separate completely. John sat down, and Sherlock settled on top of him, and the feeling of his weight bearing down on John’s thighs was like _heaven_. He had a lapful of pale, skinny, eager detective, and he could not be happier._ _

__They kissed and kissed, hot and desperate, hands and mouths and chests slippery with water. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugged, and Sherlock _moaned_ , directly into his mouth, so John did it again just to hear that sound, and Sherlock writhed in his lap in an attempt to get impossibly closer, clutching at his shoulders. They broke apart, chests heaving, and Sherlock ducked his head to kiss John’s throat. Someone whimpered, and John wasn’t sure who it was, but it didn’t matter because Sherlock was sucking at his pulse point and licking a stripe up to his ear and John was saying “Oh, _fuck_ , Sherlock, don’t stop that.”_ _

__Sherlock shifted his hips closer, and John was suddenly very aware of a hardness against his stomach, confirming that Sherlock was just as affected as he was. And then Sherlock (the clever bastard) arched his back, tilting his hips to align their erections, and rocked forward once, twice. John felt like stars were exploding in his head, it felt so _damn_ good, and Sherlock was keening into his hair and he knew they couldn’t keep this up and he didn’t want to stop, but he also didn’t want to suffer the consequences of spilling his load in a public swimming pool. Sherlock rolled his hips again, John’s name on his tongue, and John hated the words that had to come out of his mouth._ _

__“Fuck - Sherlock, we need - we need to slow down. _Jesus_.”_ _

__Sherlock pulled back. “Sorry, sorry,” he breathed. “I got, um. A bit carried away.” He looked and sounded like a complete wreck, his hair half-dry and sticking up, lips red and kiss-swollen, and eyes shining, and he was panting, his breath hitching once in a while. It took a moment, but John realised that he was trembling. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to protect Sherlock, dry him off and kiss his forehead and wash his hair, bundle him up into a corner and keep everyone else away and just _love_ him._ _

__John kissed him, chaste, on the mouth. “God,” he breathed, and kissed him once more. “Don’t apologise for that.” Sherlock met him halfway for another kiss, softer than before, but still with an undercurrent of urgency. John pulled back a few inches, and Sherlock tipped forward until their foreheads were touching._ _

__“Take me home,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet in the space between them. John shivered._ _

__“Yes,” he said. “God, yes.” Sherlock stood up, water dripping off of him in rivulets, and John felt so bereft that he almost pulled him back into his lap._ _

__“My house,” Sherlock said, answering his unasked question._ _

__“Are your parents not home?”_ _

__“Oh, they are, but our house is big. Plenty of unused rooms that are far away from the part of the house we actually use.” John blinked. He wasn’t sure if he could imagine living in a house big enough that you didn’t even use a majority of the space._ _

__Somehow or another, Sherlock got his hands on two clean towels, and they separated briefly to change back into their clothes. Sherlock fussed about his hair, but John assured him that there was no use in making it look nice - he was just going to mess it up again later. Sherlock stared at him as if he had just grown a third arm._ _

__“Are you wearing any pants?” John asked suddenly._ _

__“No. Are you?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__There was a beat, and then the room filled with their laughter._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry that this is late, I got sick and procrastinated a lot and had myself a bit of a writer's block. If my writing seemed a little bumpy, that's probably why. On the bright side, you can look forward to some hot, steamy smut next chapter :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I'd be doing weekly updates? Remember how I said there would be 8 chapters altogether?
> 
> Lies.
> 
> Also, please note the rating has changed from mature to explicit.

The drive to Sherlock’s house was just about the longest cab ride John had ever taken. The tension was tangible, like an electrical charge in the space between them. They each stayed on their respective sides of the cab, staring out the window, but once in a while they snuck furtive glances at each other. John couldn’t help but smile every time their eyes caught and then skittered away, making his heart thump with anticipation.

Finally, _finally_ , they pulled up beside a grand white house. Sherlock threw some cash into the front seat.

“Hope you two work it out,” the cabbie said, as they stepped out. John smirked. He supposed it was better for him to assume they were having a tiff than for him to know the truth.

The cab sped away, and John followed Sherlock’s dark figure up to the steps. He shoved his hands into his pockets, partially because of the cold, and partially to stop himself from fidgeting. He was experiencing a strange clash of emotions, hope and hesitance and arousal and confusion and relief and fierce joy twisting in his chest and making his palms tingle. Sherlock fumbled uncharacteristically with his keys, and John wondered if he felt similarly.

They got inside, and Sherlock motioned for him to be quiet. John followed Sherlock through the large, high-ceilinged atrium, down a dark hallway, up a flight of stairs, and past more closed doors than he could keep track of. Even with little to no light illuminating their path, the grandeur was dizzying. John wondered how Sherlock could even find his way around.

Finally, Sherlock stopped. He glanced behind him, almost as if reassuring himself that John was still there.

“This is as far away as we can get from my mum and dad,” Sherlock said. “No one ever comes down this way, so we can - we won’t be interrupted.”

“Brilliant,” John said. His voice sounded strange. He wondered how Sherlock’s aborted sentence would have ended. Sherlock opened the door, revealing a perfectly normal room, outfitted with a dresser, a lamp, a chair, and a King-sized bed. John wondered what he had been expecting.

Sherlock hesitated on the threshold, and then took three long strides over to the lamp. He flicked it on and shrugged his coat off. John’s mind, muddled as it was, tracked the movement and projected a possible outcome. He wondered what Sherlock would look like completely naked. He wondered what Sherlock would want to do, what they would do tonight and tomorrow night and a week from now and in five years, and Sherlock looked at him and said “Stop wondering.” 

So John did. He brushed his fingers through dark curls, and when Sherlock leaned down to touch their foreheads together, he tipped his chin up so their mouths met instead.

It wasn’t a fantastic kiss; their noses got squished, the angle was awkward, and it was hard and close-mouthed in a kind of desperate, unsexy way, but that was okay. And then Sherlock tilted his head and cupped John’s face in his hands and just _licked_ at John’s lips. John made some kind of noise between a laugh and a gasp, and Sherlock didn't hesitate to take the opening to push past John's lips and taste the inside of his mouth. And _oh_ , it felt good, it felt _right_ to press up against him and slide their tongues together.

A shaky moan passed between them, and John's thighs made contact with the bed. He fisted his hands in Sherlock's shirt and leaned back, causing them both to tumble gracelessly onto the mattress. John's legs dangled awkwardly off the side of the bed, and his elbow jabbed into Sherlock's ribs. They grunted and shuffled into a better position. Sherlock stared down at him and shivered, and his face twisted in a strange expression, but before John could decipher it Sherlock ducked his head under his chin, pressing a kiss to the skin there almost as an afterthought. Sherlock pulled in a lungful of air, keeping his face hidden in the safety of John's neck.

John frowned. "Sherlock?" he said, but he didn't get farther than that, because Sherlock pulled back and crushed their mouths together, hard enough that John wondered if they'd bruise. He slid a hand down to grab at John's shirt, and they separated, gasping as he pulled it over his head. It occurred to John that this was all going quite quickly, and that they hadn't discussed anything that they should have, but it was hard to care with Sherlock straddling his thighs and wriggling, it was hard to even form coherent thought with that wicked mouth licking and biting at his jawline, teeth scraping over veins, and oh _God_ John _wanted_.

Sherlock lifted his hips a little so he could scrabble at John's belt. When the buckle didn't bend to his will right away, Sherlock whimpered, a tiny, desperate sound, and pressed the heel of his palm against John's swelling erection. John moaned, his hips tilting towards the contact, and Sherlock covered his mouth with his own. John hummed into his mouth and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His fingers felt numb and shaky, his face was hot, his body occupied by the press of Sherlock’s tongue and the instinct to just _thrust_ into Sherlock’s warm, willing hand.

He gave up with Sherlock's shirt. "Clothes," he gasped, half pleading, half demanding. He slipped his index finger into the waist of Sherlock's trousers and tugged uselessly, eliciting a whine. Sherlock tore at his shirt, nearly popping buttons, and John reached for his belt, and in several eternally long seconds of grunting and fumbling and adjusting, they finally rid themselves of their clothes. Before John even had a chance to look at him properly, Sherlock was on him again, claiming his mouth so forcefully that their teeth clacked.

" _Sherlock_ ," John gasped, "Sherlock, what - what do you - want to do."

" _Everything_ ," he growled, voice scratchy and low and delicious and desperate. He mouthed at John's jaw, his neck, his collarbones, and John returned every caress with one of his own. Sherlock moved a little lower, and then lower still, and suddenly John realised what was happening. His next breath came out a bit shaky.

Sherlock licked at his ribs and looked up, smirking a little. "Ever been sucked off before?"

John's cock twitched against Sherlock's chest, and his smirk grew a bit wider. "No," John said. A tiny part of him wondered if he would have to defend his lack of experience. But then Sherlock dipped his head to nuzzle just below his navel, and John wondered if he’d ever worry about anything ever again.

Sherlock made a muffled noise against his skin, and suddenly they were kissing again. Tongues slid and hands gripped and John searched for some kind of friction, some kind of relief. His voice was out of his control, and the sounds he was making would have been embarrassing if Sherlock didn’t sound just as desperate as he did. He writhed and whined, and then pulled back suddenly, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath before he slid down, and down, and down. In one fluid movement, he wrapped a hand around John’s cock and - _ohhh fuck, his mouth, fuck_. John’s back arched, instinctively thrusting into those _perfect fucking lips_ , and almost choking Sherlock. Sherlock put a steadying hand on John’s hip, and John tried for the life of him to stop pushing up, _up_ into that glorious, slick heat. He moaned something that may or may not have been words. His heels dug into the mattress, and his hands slipped down, searching for a handhold. Trembling, they brushed through Sherlock’s hair before John thought better of it and fisted them in the sheets instead. He tried in vain to control his breathing.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled off, eliciting an unbidden moan of protest. He grasped John’s wrists, placed his hands in his hair, said “Don’t bother being gentle,” and took him in his mouth again.

John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair, relishing the feel of those cool, silky curls between his fingers. Sherlock made a small, pleased noise around him, bobbed his head, and _sucked_ , oh Jesus _fucking_ Christ, and John was pretty sure he said that out loud and he was pretty sure he didn’t care and he might have pulled out a few of Sherlock’s hairs but Sherlock didn’t really seem to mind, seeing as he was still doing a fantastic job of tearing John apart and fucking _moaning_ around his cock in the process. It took about five more seconds before John was trying in vain to warn Sherlock, gasping fragments of his name, tugging at his hair, and then he was tipping over the edge. 

Pleasure burst behind his navel, endorphins washing over him in waves. Sherlock held his hips still and swallowed him down. By the time John’s head cleared, Sherlock was on all fours and gasping, one hand down between his legs.

“C’mere,” John breathed. He was sluggish and hazy, but there was no way in hell he was letting Sherlock get himself off without at least being able to look him in the face. Sherlock huffed and crawled up the bed until they were level. John stroked a lazy hand down his side, and Sherlock shuddered. He took the hint when John tilted his head, and their mouths met in a slow, sloppy kiss. John scraped his teeth over Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock made a strangled sort of moan. He shifted his weight so he could balance on one arm, and snaked a hand down to palm at his erection. John hummed, sliding his fingertips down Sherlock's stomach and covering his hand with his own. Sherlock exhaled, spreading his legs a bit further. John coaxed Sherlock to move his hand, and took over, pumping him with slow, firm strokes. Sherlock trembled and gasped, hips stuttering in tiny, erratic thrusts. He tipped forward until their foreheads touched. 

John twisted his wrist, slid his thumb over the glans, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed. His head dropped down, open mouth pressed to John’s shoulder, and thrust into his fist once, twice. He let out a choked sob, formed in the vague shape of John’s name, and suddenly John’s stomach was very warm, and very wet. John stroked him as he came down, still trembling. Sherlock melted on top of him, hooking their legs together and curling his arms around John’s torso. John was so blissed out that he could barely bring himself to care about the sticky slide of semen between their bellies.

"Good?" John asked. Sherlock rumbled what sounded like an affirmative into his neck. John stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair, and for a while, they just breathed.

After a while, the high wore off a bit, and as much as John wanted to just drift into sleep, he really needed to get cleaned up. He rubbed a hand down Sherlock’s back, tilting his head closer to his ear.

“We should clean up.” Sherlock huffed a sigh that John interpreted as resigned agreement, and rolled onto his back. He made no move to get out of bed, so John went into the adjoined bathroom. He took care of himself, and then brought out a wet cloth and wiped Sherlock off. 

“Will you stay?” Sherlock asked. John paused on his way back to the bathroom. He couldn’t make out Sherlock’s face in the dim light.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

A few minutes later, John crawled back into bed. Sherlock kept his distance at first, but as soon as John slung an arm around his waist, he pulled himself closer, hooking his leg around John's hips and nestling against him.

It occurred to John that it ought to scare him, how much this meant to him. It ought to scare him, how much _Sherlock_ meant to him, and how unlikely it seemed that Sherlock would ever reciprocate the same depth of feeling. But for now, post-orgasmic and swathed in skinny detective, it was hard to feel anything but satisfaction as he stroked Sherlock’s back and slipped out of consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts. Warning for depictions of dangerously cute gay teenagers.

The door to the coffee shop pinged. Sherlock swirled in, tousled by the wind, and made a beeline for the booth that John was already occupying.

“So,” Sherlock said, sliding into the seat across from him. “How was it?”

John shrugged, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “It went well, I think. I finished early, which you probably knew. There were only a few questions I wasn’t sure about. I’m just glad it’s over and done with.”

Sherlock nodded. “I told you you’d be fine. You had me for a tutor, after all.”

“Oh, yeah, a tutor who kept crawling all over me every five minutes.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t - I didn’t mean to - “

“I was just teasing,” John said. Sherlock huffed, and John leaned a bit closer, smirking. “I like it when you crawl all over me.” Sherlock remained stoic, but a hint of colour crept into his cheeks.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson appeared at their side with tea and a smile. “Hello, boys,” she said. “Oh, John, how’s university treating you? I didn’t see you and Sherlock here last week. Have you had your tests and all that?” In fact, the reason they hadn’t been at Speedy’s last week was because they had just whipped through a case and ended up stumbling into John’s room and making out until their jaws were sore. The adrenaline made everything clearer, sharper, like glass. John shared a glance with Sherlock, sure that he was recalling the same thing.

“Yeah, I just had my last exam today. Probably couldn’t have gotten through it without Sherlock.”

“True,” Sherlock said. “You’re abysmal at everything save organic chemistry.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “School was so different in my day, you wouldn’t have believed it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have things to do, Mrs. Hudson? Customers to attend, dishes to wash?”

Mrs. Hudson took the rude dismissal rather well. She tutted and sighed about having a word with his mother, but left them alone soon enough.

They sipped at their tea in comfortable silence.

“I plan on acquainting myself with horology,” Sherlock said abruptly.

John tilted his head, frowning. “With what?”

“Horology. The science of measuring time.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to the Clockmakers’ Museum this afternoon. They have an extension collection of timepieces throughout the years, as well as some modern works. Could be useful for future investigations.”

“Alright,” John said. There was a heavy pause. Sherlock just stared at him, as if waiting for something more. 

When it came to him, John almost hit himself for being so obtuse.

“Hang on,” he said, grinning. “Are you trying to ask me on a date?”

“No!” Sherlock said. He managed to look appalled and slightly embarrassed at the same time. “I was merely wondering if you might be interested in accompanying me to a museum in order to gain knowledge that might be pertinent in future.”

“So you want me to come look at some old clocks and break up any fights you start with the staff and/or small children.”

“You don’t have to – “

“Sounds brilliant.” John leaned back, stretching his legs out under the table to nudge against Sherlock’s.

“Oh. Well. Fine. That’s settled.”

Sherlock’s phone chose that moment to go off. He pulled it out, and his face fell. He recovered quickly, though, pocketing the phone and facing John with a blank expression.

“Who was that?” John asked.

“Okar.”

“Case?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes. But we… we have plans.” He seemed to struggle to keep his mask intact.

“What is it?”

“Locked room. One victim.” Sherlock took a breath. “One _feline_ victim.”

The corner of John's mouth twitched. "You want to go."

"Well, yes, but it would be socially impertinent if I went to a crime scene when we've just made plans for the afternoon."

John nodded. He got up and put his coat on.

Sherlock straightened in his seat, frowning. "John?" he said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Come on,” John said. He held out his hand. “Let’s go look at dead cats.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted fractionally. “Dead _cat_ , actually.” John detected a note of bewilderment beneath the haughty delivery.

“You’re ruining the moment.”

“Oh. Were we having a moment?”

“Yes,” John said. He couldn’t quite contain the smile on his face. Sherlock stood up, ignoring John’s still-proffered hand, and kissed him soundly on the mouth. John made a faint noise of surprise. Sherlock pulled back quickly, looking a bit sheepish.

“Not good?”

John grinned. “Ah, quite good, actually.”

A beat, and then “Can we stop having a moment now?”

“Yes, you git.” John took Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s go solve a crime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for the bonus chapter! I'll give you a hint. It's a sort of alternate outcome of Chapter 4. Also, it involves gratuitous smut.


	9. Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The studying was routine now, flowing back and forth with practiced ease, and Sherlock pretended not to notice that he was leaning a bit too close over John’s shoulder. He refrained from touching him, though, except for the occasional brush of arms. Arms were safe. Not that it felt safe when Sherlock was close enough to smell him under soap and deodorant, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough to hear him breathing, slow and steady, soothing Sherlock with his continued existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The last instalment. In case you didn't notice when I mentioned it before, this is an alternate (sex scene) ending to Chapter 4. It's also written from Sherlock's perspective. Enjoy!

The wealth of information that tugged at his senses the first time he stepped into John’s room was almost overwhelming. Clothes and books and trainers were stacked and strewn, some neatly, some haphazardly, and it was so evident which pants John wore the most and which classes he liked and how he positioned himself to sleep at night and Sherlock could barely take everything in fast enough.

John would probably lose that sense of organised chaos in the army. The thought pinched at Sherlock’s chest. He waved the feeling away and sat on John’s bed, cataloguing the quality of the cotton beneath his fingers.

John was smiling at him. It was the kind of half-heartedly suppressed smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He had done nothing to deserve such a fascinating smile from John. Even John’s own warped expression of why he was smiling made no logical sense. _You’re just awfully big for a skinny bastard_.

The studying was routine now, flowing back and forth with practiced ease, and Sherlock pretended not to notice that he was leaning a bit too close over John’s shoulder. He refrained from touching him, though, except for the occasional brush of arms. Arms were safe. Not that it felt safe when Sherlock was close enough to smell him under soap and deodorant, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough to hear him breathing, slow and steady, soothing Sherlock with his continued existence.

After almost an hour, John called for a break. Sherlock took that as an invitation to poke around, and he did, opening drawers and peering at wrinkled papers and clothes. He glanced under the bed. It was relatively bare, save for a few magazines shoved against the wall where the headboard was.

While John was busy making tea, Sherlock snaked an arm under the bed and dragged one of the magazines out. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised that John kept porn in his room, but all the same, the scantily-clad woman posing on the shiny front cover took him a bit by surprise. He replaced it, and pulled another towards him, unable to ignore his curiosity. Were they all like that? All from the same brand, or did John sample different ones?

Whatever he was thinking, he certainly did not expect to find himself with an old copy of _Boyz Magazine_ in his hand. At first, he was sure John must have been coerced into buying it by his more idiotic friends, but the corners were worn and dog-eared. It was well-used.

“John, I didn’t know you were bisexual.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.

“Sherlock, Christ, put that back!”

Sherlock stood up, leafing through the magazine. He had never really seen the appeal of these kinds of magazines, but he could recognize quality when he saw it. “I’ll give you this - you have good taste.” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was provoking John, but it made his heart twitch in his chest. And then John lunged at him, and Sherlock barely reacted fast enough to hold the magazine out of his reach. 

“Give it back, you tit,” John said.

Sherlock noted the mostly annoyed, partially amused expression on John’s face (which was suddenly much closer) and smiled, keeping his voice smooth and unaffected. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, John.”

John stepped back, jaw tensing. Sherlock tracked the shift in his stance, and the smile dropped off his face when he realised what was about to happen.

Before Sherlock could do anything, before he could even form coherent thought, John had tackled him to the floor. Panic flooded Sherlock’s body. He barely noticed the magazine slipping out of his grasp. He struggled to escape, jabbing with fingers and elbows and knees, and definitely _not_ using his hips, and definitely _not_ panting. Most of all, he was not remembering the night after they captured Moulton, when he had locked himself in his room and pictured John sitting heavy on his thighs and made a horrible mess of his sheets.

And then John was straddling his hips and stretching up to pin his shoulders to the ground, filling Sherlock’s vision, and everything felt hot and tight and _dear God he was getting hard_.

John chuckled. “You put up a better fight than Moulton, I’ll give you that.”

Sherlock went very still. “John, get off.” John frowned, and Sherlock was panicking because he was going to notice and then he’d _know_ and he’d grow distant and awkward and stop smiling at him and he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear the thought of that.

“ _Now_ , John, get off _now_ ,” Sherlock said.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, are you – “

Shit.

“Shut up.” Sherlock avoided his gaze.

“Who’s bisexual now?” John said.

“I’m not bisexual.”

“Oh. You’re gay, then?”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must put a label on my sexuality, then yes, homosexual is the most accurate.”

“Don’t like labels?”

“They make me itchy,” Sherlock mumbled. He was burning with shame, and a healthy dose of dread. “If you’d be so kind as to get off me.”

John chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You know, I rather like it down here. Maybe I’ll stay a while.” He lowered himself onto his elbows, shifting carefully so that their hips aligned. Sherlock swallowed against the ache of want.

John tipped forward, bumped their noses together, and Sherlock stopped breathing. This wasn’t happening. John was teasing him. John was pulling a terrible prank on him, and any second now he’d sit up and laugh and say _I really had you going there, didn’t I?_

But John didn’t sit up or move away. Sherlock’s chest squeezed, and he thought of Victor, pretending to want him for more than just his body.

“John, wait.”

John waited.

“Why are you doing this?”

“‘Cause I want to.” John’s voice was pitched low. Sherlock shivered.

“ _What_ do you want.”

John took in oxygen, expelled carbon dioxide against the skin of Sherlock’s face. “To kiss you.” A beat. “Can I?”

“Just now? Or tomorrow too?”

John frowned, blinking.

“What about next week, will you want to kiss me then?”

John finally seemed to realise what he was getting at. He gave him a small smile. “I reckon I will.”

“Good.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure who moved first, there was so little distance between them to begin with, but he couldn’t bring himself to care because John’s lips were pressing against his, carefully, slowly, and his brain was buzzing with relief and anticipation and the kind of sharp, twisting happiness that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

John pulled back, and Sherlock tipped his chin up to meet John’s mouth again. His whole body tried to defy gravity, tried to lift up and melt against him, but John’s weight was solid, holding him firmly to the floor. The sensation was oddly comforting.

John sighed against his mouth and shifted to cradle Sherlock’s head with his left hand. The support tilted his head at _just_ the right angle, and then John was running his tongue along the seam of his lips and Sherlock pulled back to let out a shuddering breath and reached up for _more_. Their tongues brushed, and they moaned into each other’s mouths. Sherlock tangled his fingers in John’s short hair.

The evidence of John’s affection nudged against Sherlock’s thigh. John seemed to realise this and made to pull away, lifting his hips slightly and breaking the kiss.

“John,” Sherlock said, slightly breathless. By which he meant that John was an idiot and he needed to resume kissing him right away. To make his point abundantly clear, he hooked a leg around John’s hips. John let out a faint whine and lowered himself again, taking the hint very much to heart. He positioned his arms so they were snug against Sherlock’s shoulders, hands threaded through his curls, and licked into his mouth, all reserve abandoned. Sherlock replied enthusiastically, curling his arms around John’s back and rolling his hips _up_ in a way that made them gasp against each other.

"Sherlock," John said. His breath stuttered. "Are we doing this? Now?"

“Is there any reason not to?” Sherlock suspected his cool response was somewhat marred by the fact that he was practically panting.

“God, I hope not,” John said, and crushed their mouths together again. Sherlock got both of his legs around John’s hips and managed to use them as leverage. He wriggled and squeezed and found the _perfect_ angle, and oh _God_ , he was going to come in his pants. He detached from John’s mouth in favour of arching off the floor and keening.

“Ah, Christ,” John panted. “Should we - bed?”

“Don’t you dare move.”

“Right.”

Sherlock found himself rocking his hips against John without ever meaning to. John responded in kind, and soon, they had a rhythm going.

They moaned and breathed and sighed, and John tried for a kiss, but all Sherlock could do was pant against his mouth. John turned to kiss at his jawline instead. He dipped his head and set his tongue against the curve of Sherlock’s neck, and _God, yes, God_ , Sherlock’s head fell back to give him more access and John took advantage of it, kissing and licking from collarbone to jaw, grinding his hips down in tandem with his mouth. Sherlock felt John’s weight bearing down on him, felt his mouth warm and wet at his throat, felt his erection through his jeans, and suddenly it was too much, too much, _too much_. He flailed and scrabbled at John’s back. He thrust his hips and gasped, gasped John’s name again and again, helpless as his climax crashed over him. John held him through it, wiping sweaty hair off of his forehead and kissing the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock came down, sagging into the carpet. Everything felt warm and liquid and slow, and it took him a while to notice that John was holding himself just slightly above Sherlock. He was trembling from the effort, pulling in deep breaths, and still obviously aroused. So Sherlock did the only logical thing he could think of. He raised a knee to part John’s thighs and wound his heavy arms around his back, pulling him down. John’s erection slid against Sherlock’s thigh, and he shuddered. Sherlock lifted his hips a bit, encouraging the friction.

John clenched his jaw. “Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock revelled in way his mouth curved and dragged around the syllables.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was warm, and only a little mocking. He tipped his chin in invitation, and John took the offer. He seemed to intend to keep the kiss chaste, but his resolve quickly melted away, and soon, he was cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands and grinding against his thigh and licking into his mouth like he couldn’t stop. John gasped on every inhale, struggling to breathe around kisses.

Sherlock tilted John’s head to the side and kissed along his jaw. He scraped his teeth against the taut skin, gently at first, and then harder when John moaned in response. Sherlock shifted to suck at the hollow below John’s ear. The angle was awkward, especially with John moving the way he was, but John _really_ didn’t seem to mind.

“I - Sher - I’m - ” he panted. He wriggled, breath hitching, and pushed his head down against the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder. He thrust once, twice more, and then curled tight around Sherlock’s body, choking on a moan.

Sherlock cupped the back of John’s head, stroking his hair the wrong way. John slowly relaxed, letting his weight settle, heavy and warm and boneless, on top of Sherlock.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

John hummed. “You?”

“Better than.”

John turned his face into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock could feel him smiling, and it made his heart constrict in his chest.

“Can’t believe we came in our pants like that,” John said.

“Speaking of,” Sherlock said, “can I borrow some pants?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [may hay](http://lifespossibilities.tumblr.com), who helped me with last minute edits pretty much every time I posted a chapter, and let me bounce ideas off of her when I was stuck, and is generally an awesome gal.


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